


100 Dinobots

by Nightwind69



Series: Tales of the Dinobots [6]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bengal Tigers, Bickering, But who cares about humans?, Catastrophic injury, Character Study, Confused Prowl Grumpy Ratchet, Depression, Dinobot puppy pile, Feelings of Inadequacy, Gen, Grimlock wins an argument, Humor, I'll be adding tags and characters as I add stories, M/M, Medic Angst, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Optimus Prime and a Dinobot have a civil conversation, PWP, Sort Of, Tattoos, a mushy Slag no less, but also some mush, human death, robot gore, sneaky pterosaurs, the rating is for one chapter only, the rating will change too, the rest are tame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightwind69/pseuds/Nightwind69
Summary: Slightlyless than 100 stories about Dinobots. ;) I had a prompt list, and I used a die to assign each prompt to one of the Dinobots. (Or to all five of them, if I rolled a 6.) They were all supposed to be 1000 words or less, but...I'm not very good at short. Now that I sort of want to write fanfic again, maybe I'll get back to that prompt list. I still have it, after all. But for now, this will be the nine stories I wrote and posted to FF.net, all written about a decade ago. The chapter titles are the prompts.
Relationships: Grimlock & Slag & Sludge & Snarl & Swoop, Slag/Swoop
Series: Tales of the Dinobots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767142
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> The "required character" for this one was...all of them. Off with a bang, I guess. :/

"Sit _still_!" Sludge commanded with a very unusual level of ferocity in his voice. His teeth were bared in a grimace born of both concentration and annoyance.

"ITCHES!" Slag loudly protested. He really wasn't in the mood to form complete sentences. He squirmed again under Sludge's ministrations, as Sludge tried to return to his task.

"You were the one who wanted this," Sludge reminded him firmly, gritting his teeth and digging an elbow into Slag's shoulder. He pushed down hard against Slag in a likely-futile effort to keep the smaller Dinobot still.

Reflexively, Slag lifted an arm to not-gently knock Sludge off of him…except that Grimlock caught his forearm in mid-swing.

"Wouldn't do that, if I were you," Grimlock announced mildly. Even distractedly; his attention was otherwise wholly focused on the datapad that he held in his other hand. His gaze never left the pad, even. He just knew Slag precisely that well.

Slag growled, but subsided…for the moment. He jerked his arm out of Grimlock's grasp with a contemptuous snort and then muttered something that sounded vehemently ferocious under his breath.

"You want me to finish this or not?" Sludge asked, his tone uncharacteristically demanding and impatient and not a little ticked off.

"Yes!" Slag growled. He had never been one to back down from something that he'd started, and he wasn't about to start doing so now.

"Then. Sit. _Still_ ," Sludge answered, carefully enunciating each word as if Slag was an utter moron. "Or this," he added, meaningfully waving the laser scalpel he'd borrowed from Swoop in Slag's face, "might slip. Might go somewhere you don't want it to go."

At that, Grimlock exploded into waves of loud and hearty guffaws. He couldn't help himself. He couldn't remember ever hearing Sludge threaten anyone, and it was both amusing and heartening that Sludge was sticking up for himself. Especially in the face of something like a pissy Slag. Swoop, too, was snickering.

"Want me to sit on him, Sludge?" he offered brightly from his perch on the couch, watching the drama unfold and wishing for a proverbial bowl of popcorn. "I could weld him in place for you. Maybe weld his mouth shut, while I'm at it."

Sludge gave Swoop a wicked grin that under any other circumstances might have been deeply disturbing coming from the usually-gentle giant. Slag, of course, glared at Swoop, and it was the sort of glare that would put the fear of Primus into anyone. Anyone _but_ Swoop, of course, who only grinned impudently back at Slag, his eyes glittering with deep amusement.

"You shut up," Slag growled at Swoop, with narrow-eyed yet impotent annoyance.

"Make me," Swoop taunted, only barely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Slag.

"Get over here and I will!" Slag promised heatedly. "And _not_ in a way that you'll like," he pointedly added.

Unfortunately, the words and his expression only resulted in Swoop collapsing in cascades of uncontrollable snickering. Grimlock immediately followed suit, having only barely recovered from his last round of laughing at Slag's expense.

Slag heaved a greatly annoyed sigh.

"I hate you all," he announced decisively but somewhat dispiritedly, glaring at everyone. "Especially _you_ ," he added, aiming an even deeper glare at Swoop. Unfortunately, this only made Grimlock and Swoop laugh harder and even served to dig a chuckle out of the otherwise deeply annoyed Sludge.

Hearing the commotion, Snarl eventually wandered out into the common room, saw the other four Dinobots clustered together, and moved to see what they were up to. Quickly he realized that they were up to giving Slag the "tattoo" that he had wanted. He'd apparently learned from somewhere that such things were supposed to give one a tougher image, so he had decided that he wanted one. And he had decided that he wanted a short passage from _The Art of War_. In Chinese. So, Snarl had written out the characters and had given them to Sludge, who had agreed to do the artwork, creating a design and then etching the design into Slag's shoulder armor with a laser scalpel so that it would last until the next time that the armor had to be repaired or replaced. Snarl found himself curious to watch the proceedings now, despite himself, and he moved in closer to his gathered comrades so that he could see Sludge's work.

It was lovely work, as usual; one could really expect nothing less from Sludge. The design that he had come up with was stylized but very readable to anyone who could read the Chinese. And then…something caught Snarl's eye. Leaning in still closer, just to make sure he'd seen things correctly, Snarl squinted critically at the half-finished etching in Slag's shoulder. Then:

"You spelled it wrong," he announced, giving Sludge a reproving whack on the side of his head for good measure.

Sludge flinched and then gave Snarl a panicked look over Slag's shoulder, a look entirely fueled by the promise-of-death glare that Slag had swiveled around to level on him after Snarl's declaration.

"It's what you gave me!" Sludge protested defensively, gesturing at the etching and then shoving his reference datapad at Snarl.

Frowning, Snarl took the offered pad from Sludge's hand, blinking down at it for a moment.

"Damn, _I_ spelled it wrong," he admitted mildly.

There was silence for a moment, a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. And then Slag, with a throat-rending roar, launched himself at Snarl, all while yelling, "I'm going to kill you!" Grimlock made an involuntary surprised noise and then jerked his massive bulk to the side, so that he was just barely out of the two's flight path that sent them over the back of the couch that Swoop occupied and against which Grimlock had been leaning.

_Yep_ , he observed ruefully as he stood to watch Slag and Snarl tussle, a very common occurrence. _Just another day in paradise._


	2. Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required character" for this one was Snarl. Which is good because, honestly, I wouldn't have known what to do with it otherwise. :)
> 
> And because it does actually matter to this story a little bit, I should note that, in my little 'verse(s), Autobot Headquarters is in Arizona, not Oregon. Why? Watch the G1 cartoon episode "Fire in the Sky." See that snow-covered cactus that Hound crashes into early in the episode? That's a saguaro. They're pretty distinctive. I'm sure the animators didn't know this, but saguaros exist only in the Sonoran Desert, which is mostly in Mexico but stretches up to into southwestern Arizona and a teensy bit into extreme southeastern California in the US. So, I put Autobot Headquarters in Arizona, albeit in northern Arizona, closer to the Grand Canyon (and thus not in the Sonoran Desert *shifty eyes*). Why do I do this? Well, I was a TF fan long before I found out that the Ark is, according to the comics, in Oregon. In fact, I was a TF fan long before I knew the comics _existed_. (And I'm not at all fond of them, old or new, so there's that, too.) And I'm afraid my own little 'verse became ingrained.

With a long and relieved sigh that was half groan, Snarl ponderously flopped down onto his side, in his stegosaur mode. The flop, to the casual observer, might have seemed random, but really it was precisely calculated to take advantage of the strong, slanting rays of the afternoon sun. The sun's warmth served to relax him and, after a few moments of blissful, peaceful basking, Snarl stretched out his legs, wiggling them almost happily. Occasionally, his spiked tail thumped the ground as if he was a huge, contented cat. And as he usually did while sunbathing, he let his mind wander. Sometimes he would contemplate nothing, his mind blank and meditative, and sometimes he would contemplate truly bizarre and even occasionally profound things.

Today, Snarl found himself simply reflecting that there were few things in the universe that made him happy. One of them was engaging in mortal combat. It was very strange, and he knew that he'd never understand it, but something about fighting in dire situations stimulated the bliss centers of his processors. And the more dire the situation and the more outnumbered he was the better. He'd always wondered if this was something that Wheeljack or Ratchet had deliberately instilled in him or if he was just weird. He strongly suspected the latter, but he'd long since accepted the situation for what it was.

If nothing else, it made him a better fighter because he actually looked _forward_ to fighting, sought out opportunities to do so regardless of the level of danger involved. In fact, the more dangerous the fighting was, the happier Snarl became. But at least he didn't go completely berserker crazy like a certain flame-throwing comrade of his. That was just, in Snarl's studied opinion, stupid. And he wasn't afraid to let Slag know it, either. This resulted in brawls, which resulted in more happy for Snarl; it was a deeply satisfying chain of events. Snarl smirked inwardly at the thought. In this, he knew, he and Slag thought exactly alike. For once.

The other thing that made Snarl happy was sunlight, and it wasn't just because he had the ability to assimilate solar power, thanks to the glittering array of solar-cell plates that ran in a dual row alongside the spine of his dinosaur form. The power boost was just a bonus. The happiness came from some ineffable something about sunlight. Its warmth, maybe. Or maybe it was the soothing and aesthetically pleasing way that sunlight could so easily and completely color the landscape in hues that ranged from bleached-white heat to calming pink dawn to blazing, awe-inspiring sunset. Whatever it was, Snarl liked it. Or rather, he apparently needed it.

Because conversely, any extended lack of sunlight tended to make Snarl…morose. A lack of sun made him decidedly cranky and short-tempered, occasionally enough so to rival Slag at his worst. Snarl was fortunate in that the Ark had chosen to crash itself smack in the middle of a climate zone that tended to favor sunlight, one of the rarer places on Earth where the sun reigned over clouds for the vast majority of the days that made up a year.

Usually, anyway. Except for during the past week. Every day of the past week had been, for northern Arizona, unusually wet and overcast. Which made Snarl miserable, more miserable than usual. So when the skies had finally, _finally_ cleared, after what had seemed to Snarl like an unbearable and insupportable eternity, and the sun had finally edged its way out, steadily burning away the rest of the maddening cloud cover, Snarl had been quick to make a beeline for his spot.

"His spot" was its only name, the only name that he had ever called it, the only name that it had ever needed. Snarl had discovered it long ago, not long at all after his activation. It was a large clearing in the dense thickets of Ponderosa pine and scraggly scrub oak that otherwise surrounded Autobot Headquarters. The spot was close enough to Headquarters that, if he ran fast enough, he could return to it in a few minutes' time if he was needed to go kick some aft, but it was also far enough away that it could, indeed, be considered "away" from Headquarters. And, most gloriously of all, it was situated and aligned _just so_ , so that on sunny days – as most of them were – it was bathed in optimal amounts of sunshine no matter what time of day it was.

Snarl visited his spot often. Daily, if possible. Several times a day, even, when he had leave to do so. Or sometimes he would simply never leave it, once he'd arrived. Sometimes he wished that he was never _required_ to leave it. On the other hand, he was aware that if he was never required to leave his spot, then that would mean that the war was over. And that, in turn, would mean that he would lose fifty percent of his sources of happy.

Then again, Snarl mused, as his body fully relaxed in warm and contented bliss, drifting slowly and inexorably toward recharge, it would also mean that he could move to somewhere really sunny and really warm – like Tahiti, perhaps, And that, he thought, just _might_ make up for the lack of mortal combat.

Maybe.


	3. Damaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Slag.
> 
> This little story and the follow-up one that I'm going that I'm going to post right after it even though, originally, I didn't write them one after the other, are pieces of a larger story that I had notions of writing, one about degrading public relations between the humans and the Autobots. Maybe now I will put some thought into writing that story. But for now, it's just this bit and the next one.

The news helicopter was going down spectacularly, spinning as it fell from the cloudless, searingly-blue sky in a precipitous arc toward the ground. It was wrapped in bright, thick swathes of flame, and it was trailing billows of ominous black smoke in its wake.

Slag hardly noticed. He was far too busy following Swoop, smashing his way heedlessly and with all possible speed through a swatch of dense, old-growth coniferous forest. Because Swoop was also going down. Also spectacularly. Also in flames.

It had happened quickly, so very quickly. The Aerialbots had been in pursuit of the Stunticons, who had pulled off a rather daring, even for them, energy raid. The Dinobots, who'd happened to be in the area and who had been bored and spoiling for a fight of any kind, had readily responded to the Aerialbots' call for backup, giving the fliers a mostly ground-based hand. They had worked to keep the Stunticons out in the open so that the Aerialbots could more easily pick them off from the air, but the Stunticons had apparently called in for some aerial back-up of their own in the form of half a dozen Seekers. Swoop and the Aerialbots had gone off to engage them, with the goal of preventing them from assisting the Stunticons.

All had been going quite well. The four ground-based Dinobots had had four of the five Stunticons pinned down. Sludge and Snarl had been working on corralling the remaining one, Dragstrip. Grimlock had mostly incapacitated Motormaster so that the Stunticons could not combine, and he and Slag had been keeping the other three contained while the Aerialbots and Swoop had been joyously pursuing and picking off the Seekers, one by one, for once incurring little damage themselves.

But then the small fleet of news helicopters had arrived on the scene. In pursuit of ratings, they had become much bolder of late, pushing themselves far too close to Autobot/Decepticon combat situations for their own safety, particularly so because they were simply civilian vehicles, lacking weaponry or any sort of armor whatsoever. The Autobots had pointed this small fact out to the humans' news organizations time and time again, urgently warning them to stay away from hot zones both for their own safety and so that the Autobots could more easily deal with the Decepticons, only to be met with refusal after refusal and a chorus of righteous citations of "the freedom of the press." Dealing with them, so Jazz had been heard to loudly lament, was like beating one's head against a concrete wall.

The Decepticons, unsurprisingly, took advantage of the foolish human intrusions. Sometimes, they would simply shoot down the humans' vehicles on sight, which served as an excellent diversion when a conflict was going against them, but they had also discovered that the humans' vehicles could be used as shields. The latter was the tactic that the Decepticons employed far more often; destroying the vehicles only convinced the humans to stay away, depriving the Decepticons of the more tactically-useful shield function.

Thrust, with Swoop in hot and dogged pursuit of him, had been trying to circle back to assist the floundering, Dinobot-harried Stunticons and had been carefully keeping one of the humans' helicopters between him and the pursuing aerial Dinobot. Thrust knew that Swoop would not fire directly at the pathetic human vehicle in order to get to him. So Swoop had been trying to work his way around the helicopter, trying to get a clear shot at the Seeker that wouldn't also put the humans in more peril than they were already in.

But as Swoop had carefully maneuvered in, the helicopter's human pilot had made a jerky, abrupt, and ultimately very ill-advised maneuver in an attempt to evade Thrust. As a result, there had been a collision between the helicopter and Swoop, who had not been able to move out of the helicopter's suddenly-changed trajectory quickly enough. The helicopter's rotor had sliced one of Swoop's wings clean off and had then torn brutally into his body, almost shearing entirely through him before Swoop had somehow managed to tear the wedged-in blade from the helicopter's rotor assembly. That was when the flames had started, and it was unclear who or what had caught first, Swoop or the helicopter, but both, now, were going down in billows of noxious smoke and flames. The helicopter's rotor blade was still buried in Swoop's torso as he plummeted toward the hard and unforgiving Earth.

There had been confusion amongst the Autobots as to what to do: assist the humans, assist Swoop, or pursue the Decepticons since, as the Autobots had dithered, the Stunticons had regrouped and had begun to limp away. For Slag, the choice had been very simple. In his estimation the humans aboard the helicopter had brought their fate on themselves and fully deserved the horrible, fiery death they were no doubt experiencing, if they were still alive at all. And as far as he was concerned the Decepticons could damn well have the energy they'd stolen from the humans; the humans deserved to lose it due to their gross collective stupidity. Swoop didn't deserve the fate he'd been dealt. At all. He was suffering entirely due to the humans' stupidity and that enraged Slag. And so he had taken off, not bothering to listen to what Grimlock had to say on the subject. Snarl had joined him in steadfast but wordless solidarity.

So now the two of them were plowing side-by-side through the forest, determined worry spurring both of them with all possible haste toward the spot where Swoop, a few seconds later, impacted with the Earth. They left a wide swath of destruction and smashed, uprooted trees in their wake, and somewhere in Slag's mind he just knew that he'd be getting a lecture about that from the tree-huggers amongst the humans, likely via a similarly sanctimonious Optimus Prime. But he did not care about that in the slightest. Nor did he care about the dents and dings that he was acquiring as he pushed heedlessly through the Earth flora. Neither, apparently, did Snarl.

Too-long moments later, Slag and Snarl arrived at Swoop's crash site, and an unsurprisingly gruesome scene greeted them. Despite the fact that they'd been expecting gruesome, it still brought Slag and Snarl to an abrupt and horrified momentary halt. They took a moment to exchange a silent but deeply uncertain glance and then approached their fallen comrade, transforming out of their sturdier dinosaur modes as they did so.

Swoop lay awkwardly in the smoldering center of the clearing that his crash had created, at the end of a long and deep rut of gouged, blackened earth. Impaled as he still was, he could not transform, but he was still somehow conscious. A constant gurgling keen of pain issued from him, morphing into outright soul-rending screams when he made even the slightest move. His intact wing, singed mostly black now, was bent awkwardly underneath him, the long rotor that was wedged in his body having forced him onto his side. The remaining stump of his other wing was upraised, twitching randomly and spasmodically, and it was violently spurting gouts of vital fluids that liberally splattered Swoop's surroundings, including Slag and Snarl themselves as they knelt down next to their gravely injured comrade. The rest of Swoop's body was twisted and mangled from the collision and the subsequent crash. Armor plating that was normally dark grey, deep blue, and bright silver was dirt-covered, thickly smeared with vital fluids, and largely singed black from flames that had, at least, extinguished themselves somehow.

It was, Slag realized as he numbly took in Swoop's damage, a minor miracle that the helicopter's rotor had not sliced clean through Swoop's spark chamber, but it had come frightfully close to doing so. Slag could see the faint glow of Swoop's spark pulsing with distressing weakness through the tear in his body. The tear was truly horrendous to behold when viewed up close, wide and sparking and sizzling where shorted circuits mingled with bleeding fluids. The edges of the gaping wound were jagged and blackened, and fluids seeped out of it in pulpy gushes around the impaling rotor blade, like hot molten lava pushing its way out of a narrow crack.

Usually, it wasn't Swoop suffering like this. Usually, it was Slag himself who suffered this sort of catastrophic damage. He was quickly discovering that being the damaged one was in a strange way much easier than being the one to figure out what to do about damage like this. Swoop was their team's medic, and he was no longer simply a field medic trained in enough first aid to, hopefully, keep a damaged comrade alive long enough to get him to a real medic. He was instead one of those real medics now, heir to Ratchet's renowned compendium of knowledge. Since they were often thrust into extreme and dangerous situations, usually without readily-available backup, the other Dinobots relied on Swoop for that…but now he was the one in need of help, help that rather obviously needed to happen in a hurry. And neither Slag nor Snarl had much of a clue as to what to do.

They exchanged a horrified and helpless glance across Swoop's struggling, twitching, keening body.  
Snarl, coming to a decision, stood and commed Silverbolt. Slag vaguely heard Snarl inform the Aerialbot leader in no uncertain terms that they needed emergency transport right now, vaguely heard Silverbolt grimly reply that he needed a runway in order to take off in Concorde mode, and then vaguely heard Snarl contact Grimlock to let him know that they needed more forest demolition right away. But Slag's attention was mostly focused on Swoop. Who, after a moment, weakly nudged Slag's knee with the tip of his beak.

"Wing…" he uttered determinedly but weakly around whimpering gasps of pain, his voice choked with static. "Slag…have to…stop…bleeding."

Slag stared down at him. "How?" he murmured.

"Main feed," Swoop choked. "You'll see it…under the engine. Can't miss it. Pinch it off."

Slag swiftly moved behind Swoop, only to quickly realize that carrying out Swoop's instructions was easier said than done. The engine in question, one of two mounted on Swoop's back, was still securely attached to Swoop's body, and Slag had no idea how to remove it without doing further damage.

"Uh…"

"Just tear it off," Swoop gasped, anticipating Slag's protest. "Use…Snarl's sword…if you have to."

"But—"

"Do it!" Swoop urged as loudly as he could, desperate now, and very obviously afraid. "If you don't….die. Don't wanna die, Slag…pain OK…don't wanna…"

Still Slag hesitated. This was definitely worse than being the damaged one.

"Please," Swoop was moaning, meanwhile. "Slag…"

The pleading, the desperate tone, and the frightened and pain-filled look that Swoop gave him finally spurred Slag to action. Before he could talk himself out of it, he called out to Snarl, who was conferring with the just-arriving Sludge and Grimlock, relaying to them Silverbolt's requirements for a takeoff runway. Snarl approached Slag warily, and Slag took his sword from him without explaining why he needed it. While Snarl watched, thoroughly confused, Slag stood to wield the sword as required.

He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to not see what he was about to do, but he knew that was impossible. He needed to see or else he risked fatal damage to Swoop. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he raised the sword and gave Snarl a glare that silenced the protest that he'd started to make when he'd realized what Slag was intending to do. And then Slag paused, another thought occurring to him.

"Hold him still," Slag growled at Snarl, jerking his chin down at Swoop. When Snarl hesitated, Slag angrily added. "No time to explain. Do it!"

Snarl blinked but complied, dropping to his knees and positioning his hands on Swoop in an attempt to compromise between the need to hold him as still as possible and not causing him further pain. The rotor blade that skewered Swoop made this more difficult and with a growl, Snarl laid a hand on it to attempt to rip it from Swoop's body.

Swoop, his body stiffening in alarm, weakly cried out, "No!" and then when Snarl looked down at him questioningly, he added even more weakly, gasping, "It's wedged…in my main…energon artery. You move it…bleed out in seconds."

Snarl jerked his hand away from the rotor blade as if he'd been burned. Not taking the time to appreciate the irony that the thing that had caused Swoop's damage was also the thing that was keeping him alive at the moment, he positioned himself to hold Swoop in place as best he could, opting to carefully straddle the smaller Dinobot's body and to rest maybe half of his weight on him while pushing down on his shoulder, trying to balance necessary firmness and a need to be gentle for Swoop's sake. Swoop grunted, pained anew, but he held himself still.

Snarl gave Slag an apprehensive look, signaling his and Swoop's readiness, and then Slag brought the blade down, with all of his considerable strength behind it, on Swoop's engine, trying to aim for its mounting. Even so, it ended up taking two strokes to hack the engine messily away from the rest of Swoop's body.

Swoop screamed in a way that would, Slag knew, forever haunt him as he brought the blade down on him, his body reflexively convulsing a few times as pain flooded him, pain that eclipsed even that which was radiating from his ruined torso in waves that hurt so much that, oddly, he almost couldn't feel the pain anymore, his sensory net curiously numb, bombarded with far too much constant sensation for it to handle. The new pain from his back seemed to wake everything up again, though, and it was far too much to compensate for.

Swoop blacked out, mercifully, his body going limp.

Moving quickly, Slag knelt down behind Swoop again, probing hurriedly and none-too-gently, since Swoop was unconscious, through the wreckage he'd caused. And, just as Swoop as said, he easily found the main energon line that fed, uselessly now, Swoop's severed wing. Slag yanked viciously at the fat line, pulling it out and away from Swoop's body, and then clamped both of his hands around it until the neatly-chopped-off end of it finally stopped spurting out Swoop's lifeblood. With a relieved sigh, Slag sagged back on his haunches, keeping his grip tight on the energon line, staring at the mess he'd caused. The remains of Swoop's engine sparked and hissed and leaked fluids, but not nearly so badly as Swoop's wing had been messily spurting them all over the place. It dimly occurred to Slag that, if the terrible injury to his torso didn't do him in, he had just saved Swoop's life.


	4. Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Slag, and it's a "sequel" of sorts to the previous story.

Ratchet sat himself down next to Slag. The big Dinobot had encamped himself in the Rec Room, claiming a table in the corner, and no one else had dared to approach him, much less to sit with him. He was an obvious and festering knot of rage. And of worry. And, Ratchet suspected, of guilt. It was a very bad combination, particularly so in an individual of Slag's volatile temperament. It needed to be addressed before he lost control and hurt someone. Or himself.

Ratchet felt very intimidated at the prospect. For all that he had been one of those responsible for Slag's existence, Slag was frightening even to him. And he was a puzzle, too, as he was to pretty much everyone else, even to most of his Dinobot brethren. He kept to himself and usually said almost as little as Snarl did; in those ways, the two were very alike. But unlike Snarl, whose weapon of choice was a mask of indifference, there was always an air of barely-restrained rage about Slag. It was a black cloud that rumbled and occasionally flashed and that followed Slag wherever he went. It made his reactions to different situations unpredictable at best. This, of course, kept most away from Slag, encouraged most to give him a very wide and wary berth. Ratchet was no exception. Ratchet was also quite certain that such distance was exactly what Slag wanted.

But Ratchet felt – knew, really – that what Slag needed at the moment was not solitude. He didn't often feel like he had much in common with Slag, didn't often feel as if there was any sort of connection between them at all. Under normal circumstances, he could never tell what Slag was thinking, what he might be feeling beyond or beneath his habitual, shielding anger. But right at that moment, in the wake of what had happened to Swoop and especially in the wake of what Slag had been forced to do to help him, indeed to save him, Ratchet had a pretty good idea of what was eating at Slag. Hence, his self-assigned mission.

Because suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, he and Slag had something in common.

Ratchet didn't consider himself to be much of a counselor, really, for all that medics were often called upon for that sort of thing. It was not a talent that he naturally possessed, that much was certain, nor was it one that he'd ever been very successful at deliberately developing in himself. Ratchet was very good, the best, at repairing physical damage, but he was well aware that that was about the extent of his talents. Psychology and being comforting were really not amongst his strengths. Wheeljack was surprisingly good at it, particularly for an engineer, who were usually not individuals known for their people skills. _Swoop_ was surprisingly good at it. But not Ratchet. Never Ratchet.

Still, Slag was hurting. He was bleeding almost as much as Swoop had been, and Ratchet knew, deep down, that it was up to him to try to stop the hemorrhaging before it wrought serious damage. That was his job, both as a medic and as Slag's…parent, in a sense.

Ratchet firmly reminded himself of this as he gathered his courage and sat himself down, especially when Slag gave him a very displeased look. The Dinobot had been staring at the wall, a container of energon sitting untouched in front of him, and once he'd glared at Ratchet, he went back to staring at the wall, completely ignoring the medic. Ratchet actually considered that to be a good sign; if Slag had really not welcomed his company, he would have made it very obvious, either by leaving himself or by "encouraging" Ratchet to leave. That he did nothing was, to Ratchet, promising.

So Ratchet just sat there for a long while, saying nothing, sipping absently at his own energon and gathering his thoughts, his resolve. And then, long minutes later, he asked, "How are you doing, Slag?"

Slag started a bit, having come to the welcome conclusion that Ratchet wasn't going to talk. He turned his head to scowl at the medic and at the same time resolved that he wasn't going to answer. Which was why it utterly surprised him when he heard words emerge from himself mere seconds after that.

"I'm fine," Slag heard himself say. "Wasn't damaged."

"I know that," Ratchet answered quietly. "But I wasn't talking about that kind of damage." When Slag merely regarded him quizzically, Ratchet turned sideways in his chair so that he could lean closer to Slag, so that he could speak to him almost conspiratorially. "I know," he said, lowering his voice, "what you had to do to save Swoop. And I know what it's doing to you now."

Slag glared down at him, his body stiffening.

"I'm fine," he insisted again. "Did what he asked me to do, that's all."

"You did what you had to do, yes," Ratchet agreed. "But that doesn't mean that it was easy to do. Believe me, I know that. I've been in that same place many times. More times than I want to count, really."

Slag continued to stare at Ratchet, but Ratchet could have sworn that the Dinobot's expression softened somewhat. So he continued, gently, "You're used to hurting enemies, Slag. It's what you do. It's what you were born to do, and you've always done it very, very well. But Swoop is not an enemy, and you hurt him."

"Didn't _want_ to," Slag answered quietly but vehemently. He suddenly gripped the energon container in front of him tightly, his strength threatening to crush it.

"I know," Ratchet answered, equally quietly. He laid a comforting hand on Slag's forearm, fully expecting the Dinobot to jerk angrily away…but he didn't.

"But…I had to," Slag said instead, matter-of-fact.

"Yes, you did," Ratchet agreed. "And you saved him. He'd be dead if you hadn't done what you did."

Slag was quiet for a very long moment after that, battling with himself. Ratchet felt a tremor run through his forearm every once in a while as the Dinobot fought with his emotions. He was just about to say something, to make an attempt at comfort, when Slag spoke up again.

"I can still hear him," Slag said, his voice hardly sounding like his own. It was quiet with sorrow, and there was a distinct tremor in it. "The way he screamed. I hear it over and over. Can't make it stop. Don't know how to make it stop."

Ratchet winced, squeezed Slag's forearm in empathy. Slag looked down at his arm, surprised, and then his gaze shifted to Ratchet's face, which was looking up at him in shared pain.

"I know," Ratchet said quietly. "The screams are pretty loud in my head sometimes, too." When Slag only looked at him questioningly, he added, "The situation you faced…It happens often, especially in field medicine. In that situation, you can't always treat grave injuries as gently as you ideally should…and you often have to cause even more pain in order to save a life. Sometimes, you have to cause truly horrendous pain, as you had to do. So, you just…collect screams as you go along, I suppose. And I've been at this a long, long time, Slag."

Slag frowned thoughtfully at Ratchet for a long, appraising moment.

"How…How do you…?" he began to ask.

"Deal with it?" Ratchet finished. At Slag's wordless nod, he answered, "The screams get quieter with time, Slag. The one you're hearing will fade, too, eventually, and since you're not a medic, hopefully you won't accumulate more of them."

Slag nodded, and then he said, almost thoughtfully, "'Time heals all wounds.'"

"Indeed," Ratchet answered with a sad smile. "But until then, you just have to…endure. There's nothing else you can do. Just…try to stay focused on the fact that if you hadn't done what you did, Swoop would be dead right now. That's what's always gotten me through."

All sorts of things tumbled through Slag's thoughts, of a sudden, as he stared wonderingly at Ratchet. Most of all, Slag was only just then realizing how much he had always underestimated Ratchet, how much he had underestimated the medic's sheer strength. He had always done so because, until right at that moment, he'd only ever paid attention to one means of measuring strength. More than that, he had always respected and acknowledged only one kind of strength, and it was a kind that Ratchet had never seemed to have much interest in showing. But Ratchet had just proven to Slag that his kind of strength was, perhaps, ultimately more powerful than the kind that Slag respected and that he sought to cultivate in himself. It was a startling revelation to Slag. Disturbing, even.

"I…always thought you were weak," he confessed to Ratchet, although he couldn't quite bring himself to look at him. "That medics were weak, even Swoop, sometimes. Not fighters. And you are not a fighter, Ratchet." And then he did finally turn his head to look Ratchet squarely in the eye, and he said, approvingly, "But you are not weak."

It was, Ratchet knew, the highest compliment that Slag would ever pay to anyone. He smiled accordingly.

"Thank you, Slag," he said, genuinely flattered. "And neither are you, so I know that you'll get through this." He rose then, saying that he needed to get back to Swoop, but he paused before he left and laid a hand on Slag's shoulder. He was again gratified when Slag didn't jerk away from him. "But…if you need to," Ratchet said quietly, "come and talk to me. Anytime."

Slag regarded Ratchet searchingly for a moment, and then he nodded curtly in acknowledgment, choosing not to say anything more. Ratchet gave Slag's shoulder an encouraging squeeze and then a pat, and then he slipped away, returning to his other patient.


	5. Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Grimlock. Who, oddly enough, is the Dinobot I've written about the least.
> 
> This little story, though, was actually meant to be a very odd hint at what Grimlock is an AU continuity that I never ended up writing but that I'm hoping to continue. Either way, AU or not-AU, the key theme for Grimlock, in my mind, is protectiveness. It's what fuels him in general, and it's what's fueling him in this story, too.
> 
> And, of course, it's always fun to write Grimlock vs. Optimus Prime. :) Oh! And the idea of Bluestreak owning cats comes from a story by MariaShadow on FF.net called ["Twostroke."](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2683177/1/Twostroke)

"You've always told us," Grimlock rumbled reasonably at Optimus Prime, "that we should protect this planet's lifeforms."

Optimus Prime sighed.

"The humans, yes," he answered wearily.

Grimlock snorted disgustedly.

"There are too many humans," he asserted. "They even say so themselves. They could use some thinning out. But _this_ species," he said, gesturing meaningfully at the two small animals heedlessly cavorting on the floor, playfully snarling and wrestling with each other, "is endangered. _Because of_ your precious humans."

"But Grimlock, you—"

"Bluestreak has cats," Grimlock interrupted, determinedly lifting his chin.

Optimus Prime sighed again.

"Yes. Cats," he said. "Small, _domesticated_ cats. _Those_ ," he said, jabbing a finger at the orange-and-black balls of fluff on the floor of his office, "are Bengal tigers. They will _eat_ Bluestreak's cats."

Grimlock shifted his stance, folding massive arms across massive chest. His expressive capability was greatly limited by the design of his face, but Optimus knew that he was being glared at. He'd certainly experienced Grimlock's displeasure often enough over the years to know, and displeasure was radiating almost visibly from the big Dinobot now.

"Good," Grimlock rumbled, so deeply that the rumble must have originated in his feet.

And Jazz, who'd been in Prime's office when Grimlock and his "charges" had unceremoniously arrived and who had been watching the ensuing discussion with vast amusement, suddenly snorted explosively and then slapped his hand over his mouth to conceal what was likely a massive grin. Optimus briefly speared the saboteur with a _You're not helping here_ glare and then returned his attention to Grimlock.

"The point," he said calmly, trying to be patient with the Dinobot commander, "is that they don't belong here, Grimlock. I understand that they're too young to be away from their mother, and it's very commendable that you rescued them after that battle and are willing to take care of them now. But they should be in a zoo or—"

And that was as far as he got. Grimlock stepped menacingly toward him and then slammed both fists on Prime's desk with enough force that Prime was vaguely surprised that it wasn't smashed in two. Even the tigers stopped what they were doing for a moment, alarmed at the noise. And then Grimlock was leaning down toward him, his face suddenly inches from Prime's. And he was definitely glaring. Definitely.

"That's your solution to _everything_!" Grimlock growled at him fiercely. "Put it in a _cage_!" he further spat, derisively.

Prime blinked at him.

"That wasn't what I meant—" he tried to explain.

"Yes, it was," Grimlock asserted forcefully.

"No, it—" Prime began to respond before interrupting himself. "No," he said firmly. "No, I'm not having this argument with you again." He stood up then, walked around his desk, and regarded Grimlock eye-to-eye. "They're animals, Grimlock, not sentient beings. And they're potentially _dangerous_ animals, given that we often have human guests here."

"'Not sentient beings,'" Grimlock echoed. "'Potentially dangerous animals.' Why does that sound familiar?"

"This isn't about you, Grimlock," Prime answered levelly, refusing to be baited.

"Maybe not," Grimlock eventually conceded. "But I did not rescue them so that they could spend their lives in cages with supposedly advanced primates gawking at them. Death would be better than that. They _must_ be free."

Prime blinked again, at first surprised by Grimlock's vehemence. But upon further thought, considering the Dinobots' own history, he supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised. Grimlock took freedom very seriously, as seriously as he himself did, but for very different reasons. For Grimlock, freedom was a deeply personal issue, something to be fought for passionately, tooth and nail, not merely an idealistic ideological concept. Only Grimlock apparently, and empathetically, extended freedom to _all_ creatures, not just to the sentient ones.

Suddenly, and very unwelcomely, Optimus Prime felt just slightly humbled.

"What are you proposing?" he asked quietly, resignedly, of Grimlock as he settled to lean back against his desk.

Grimlock shifted again, the rigidity of his posture softening now that Prime was apparently listening to him. For once.

"It's because of us that their mother was killed," he said. "It's our responsibility to care for them. So, they stay here," he said quietly but firmly, brooking no argument. "until they are able to survive on their own. Then we will take them back to India and release them." He paused, then added, " _If_ they wish to be released."

Optimus Prime sighed and started to protest that, as animals, the tigers didn't, _couldn't_ , have wishes, but he didn't get halfway through that particular sentence before Grimlock was starting to glare menacingly at him again. So he said instead, in defeat, "They stay in the Dinobots' quarters."

Grimlock snorted.

"I will make certain that they don't eat any human guests, if that's what you're worried about," he said sarcastically. "Or Bluestreak's cats, for that matter," he added grudgingly.

Optimus Prime nodded, choosing to ignore the sarcasm, but then he warned, "But if there are any…problems, then we'll have to find another home for them. _Probably_ a zoo."

Grimlock stiffened but then quickly realized that, having won the argument at hand, he shouldn't push his luck.

"There will be no problems," he asserted confidently and firmly instead.

"I hope not," Optimus answered softly. He watched the two cavorting striped creatures for a long moment and found himself amused at their antics, their tireless energy. He murmured, mostly to himself, "They _are_ …cute."

"They are _warriors_ ," Grimlock firmly, immediately, corrected him, his visor gleaming almost with pride. "Vicious predators. But…" he conceded after a moment with an almost fond sigh, "they are…cute…at the moment, yes."

Optimus chuckled.

"Do they have names?" he asked, suddenly curious. "Or should we just refer to them as 'they' and 'them?'"

Grimlock hesitated for a moment and then answered, "One of them is male, the other female. We thought about naming the male 'Ravage'…" he said, and Optimus Prime chuckled again at that, but then Grimlock continued, "But in the end, Snarl named them Manyamana and Sundari. It's Sanskrit for 'proud one' and 'beautiful girl.'"

Prime nodded, thinking the names quite suitable.

"Very well," he said. Looking down intently at the two infant tigers, he added whimsically, "Manyamana, Sundari, welcome to Autobot Headquarters. Please behave yourselves."

The tiger cubs continued to wrestle, ignoring everything but each other, until Grimlock gently gathered them up into his arms. They snarled and yipped and scratched and squirmed mightily in protest, but he held them firmly and then, his battle won, he headed for the door of Prime's office without further words.

"What's next, Grimlock?" Optimus Prime quietly called out, curious despite himself, just as Grimlock was about to pass through the door. "Elephants?"

Grimlock paused, thinking about the question for a moment.

"Maybe," he rumbled, very seriously, just as the door slid shut behind him.

Once the door had fully closed behind the Dinobot, Jazz felt compelled to sing-song, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my."

Optimus Prime sighed wearily, his shoulders slumping, and said, "Let's just hope he stops with tigers."


	6. Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Slag...and Swoop came along for the ride. In more ways than one. ;)
> 
> Yup, might as well end today's posting with the smutty one. *eye roll* This is the one and only time that I experimented with the "sticky" thing. As it turns out, it's really not my thing. "Plug and Play" and spark stuff makes much more sense to me. But, I wanted to see if I could do it, so I did it. Sort of. I still couldn't justify the notion of fluids, so it's non-sticky sticky, essentially. But whatever. There it is.
> 
> I still have no idea how to rate robo-smut, but I went with the naughtiest one just to be safe.

"Missed you," Slag muttered by way of explanation as he easily lifted Swoop and then crushed him up against the nearest wall of the supply closet with a reverberating clang that could perhaps be heard in the next state over, much less out in the medbay.

 _So much for being discreet_ , flitted disapprovingly through Swoop's mind, but then Slag's mouth busied itself against him, distracting him from the thought. From any thought, really. Talking was apparently not on Slag's agenda. As usual. Swoop tried it anyway.

"You were only gone for three hours," he pointed out exasperatedly, although the protest was weak and half-hearted. His initial resolve to be righteously indignant had quickly begun to crumble once Slag had unerringly homed in, all tactically-focused, on That Spot. It was an otherwise innocent-looking little armor seam on his upper chest, but if one worked it just right, it allowed access to a few sensor nodes that drove Swoop completely wild when they were manipulated just so.

Unfortunately for Swoop, Slag knew just how to work That Spot. He knew how to work many such spots, and he seemed intent on visiting all of them. A gurgling sound that was half whine of protest and half growl of desire surged through Swoop in response, and he slid his arms forward to drape them over Slag's shoulders, slipping small hands down between Slag's back and his little kibble wings that Swoop considered utterly adorable. They were like itty bitty baby wings, and, much to Slag's annoyance, they induced much cooing and petting in Swoop.

"Still missed you," Slag was insisting meanwhile. "Was like three _weeks_ ," he plaintively added.

Swoop sighed in defeat and wrapped both of his legs more tightly around Slag's waist for better balance.

"This has nothing to do with missing me," he pointed out, caressing over some external struts and yanking at some cabling that was nestled under Slag's kibble wings, making Slag yowl in appreciation. "And you know it."

The sting that Swoop intended the comment to have was utterly undone by the long, tremulous, needful moan that emerged from him as the tip of Slag's dexterous tongue found one of Those Nodes. Still, what he'd said was true. Fighting made Snarl happy; it made Slag a different five-letter adjective that began with "h" and ended in "y."

This, Swoop had learned very quickly once their relationship had very recently taken a sudden and unexpected dive into the realms of the physical and intimate. Not that Swoop generally complained about this tendency of Slag's, of course. Slag had always, until now, held off this urge until Swoop was off-shift and they were alone together in some far less potentially-public place. And the end result of the pent-up lust, Swoop had to admit, had been explosive and…wow. But this time, the alarm klaxon had sounded just when they had been about seven-eighths of the way to doing exactly what they were heading toward doing now, only not against the wall. The frustration of that interruption combined with the thrill of victorious battle that didn't half-way kill Slag this time had created…this. This desperate, ravenous, demanding, duty-shift-interrupting monster. It all made Swoop wonder what, exactly, Slag had done to release this excess and excited post-battle energy before the two of them had become intimate. He was determined to ask this question of Slag. One day.

Not right now.

Slag was giving Swoop a wicked grin, breaking off his worshipful self-guided tour of what he could reach of Swoop's torso with his mouth without stepping away from the wall.

"Shut up," he growled. And then he proceeded to ensure that Swoop would refrain from talking using the quickest method that he knew: Their mouths met in a jarring, brutal, biting kiss that seemed to go on and on for hours.

Swoop sighed a long and whimpering sigh into the kiss, all protests gone in an instant as Slag used the bulk of his larger body to pin Swoop more firmly against the wall, after which he put his hands to a much better use than simply supporting Swoop's weight. Swoop was glad to return the favor, too, his hands roaming around what he could reach of Slag's body, visiting all the spots that he knew that Slag liked but carefully avoiding those that would really drive him crazy. Otherwise, this encounter, given Slag's current state of arousal, would last about fifteen seconds. Slag was snarling into the kiss now, his hands finding Swoop's wings, fingers running all over what he could reach of the twin silver expanses that Swoop had alluringly spread out against the nauseatingly orange wall. He dug his fingers roughly into their fold seams and caressed with an incongruously light touch all along their edges, knowing exactly the effect that doing so would have on Swoop.

On cue, Swoop whimpered again, breaking the kiss and biting down hard on his lower lip to avoid making any louder, more attention-getting noises. His back arched against the wall, pushing his chest into Slag. Slag signaled his approval of this by nuzzling into Swoop's neck, nipping at what he found there with a happy – Happy! – little moan. Swoop chuckled at the happiness and lightly tweaked one of those drive-Slag-wild spots, digging small fingers into an armor seam high on Slag's left side, under his arm…and Slag's happy moan instantly transformed itself into a decidedly more feral and snarly one.

 _Much better_ , Swoop decided, smirking in satisfaction.

Abruptly deciding that the wall made things awkward and not nearly as fun as they could be, Slag gathered Swoop securely against him and then stepped a few paces backward, away from the wall. Still holding Swoop against him, he sank quickly and gracelessly down onto his knees and then still farther down, onto his back, flattening the kibble riding on his back against the floor in a way that wasn't exactly comfortable but that also wasn't exactly unpleasant. He pulled a yelping but unresisting Swoop over on top of him, and the other's weight further flattened Slag against the floor.

Swoop was somewhat surprised by the sudden shift of venue, but he was flexible and went with it. He shifted and scooted downwards, straddling one of Slag's legs and leaning down to run his tongue slowly and sensuously over Slag's abdomen while simultaneously running one hand up the inside of his un-straddled thigh. Slag couldn't see what Swoop was doing over the swell of his own chest, so the various sensations were all small and delightful surprises. With a long sigh, he sagged back against the floor, occasionally reaching for Swoop, but the smaller Dinobot deftly dodged out of his grasp. Slag eventually gave up the effort, choosing to lay back and revel in sensation instead.

Slowly, Swoop's warm little tongue began to work its way downward, dipping deeply into the seam where Slag's pelvis joined his abdomen while the fingers of his exploring hand simultaneously dug expertly into the juncture of his inner thigh and his pelvis. Slag gasped and then clenched his jaw, fighting hard not to squirm under the assault of dual and equally arousing sensations. Unfortunately, he rather lost the battle.

"Yesssss," he hissed around his still-clenched jaw. Bending the knee of his free leg for leverage, he pressed himself more firmly up against Swoop's mouth as it worked its talented magic against him.

Swoop grinned against Slag while he worked, a happy, trilling purr issuing from him. He momentarily reflected with deep satisfaction that, for all that Slag was large and overbearing and relentlessly aggressive in general, it was actually he who was largely in control of their more intimate encounters. He knew exactly what to do to very quickly transform Slag into a large, blithering blob of putty in his hands. He had the power to make any encounter between them explosively and passionately short or to drag it out for long and blissful hours, if they had the luxury of doing so. Right now, he was aiming for something somewhere between those two extremes, since they were in a semi-public place.

That thought brought Swoop up short, giving him momentary pause. Especially as Slag's moans and small cries began to rise precipitously in volume as Swoop's small hand stroked over his interface panel, teasing it, his fingers lightly dancing and tickling along its edges.

"The door," Swoop murmured at Slag.

"Locked it," Slag breathlessly assured Swoop, breaking out of pleasured paralysis enough to reach one hand down to scratch and scrape against the closest of Swoop's trembling wings. Moving his hand underneath the panel of gleaming silver, Slag dug into the spot where the missile launcher mounting met the rest of Swoop's wing, and his reward was Swoop emitting a loud, lovely sound that was part squeal, part squawk, and part moan. Slag grinned in response; he loved it when Swoop let himself go and went all noisy. "Wanted you all to myself," he breathed lecherously.

Swoop shuddered at the tone of Slag's voice, but felt compelled to remind him, "About fifteen people have the unlock code." He had been going for a reproving tone, but the pleasured shuddering in his voice rather ruined the effect.

"They wanna watch," Slag growled with a fiercely determined and passionate snort, "let 'em watch. _Not_ stopping."

Swoop wasn't usually given to exhibitionism, even if it was only potential exhibitionism. And he knew that Slag would indeed stop, if he but asked him to. But there was something about the situation that was…exciting. Exhilarating, even. Perhaps it was the possibility of being watched. Or the near-certainty that anyone who happened to be in the next room would know precisely what was going on in the closet. Then there was also Slag's determined desperation and his possessiveness that was always comfortingly protective but that was sometimes, like right at that moment, also delightfully domineering. The combination of these things was serving to do very bad – or very good, depending upon how one looked at it – things to Swoop's self-control. He suddenly didn't care who heard them, who saw them, who watched them, or, hell, who might get off right along with them while watching what they were doing.

He just wanted Slag. Now.

"S'OK," Swoop decided. "Don't wanna stop," he added, snarling breathlessly as he squirmed anew against Slag's body, wantonly rubbing his groin against Slag's captured thigh as Slag continued to tweak and probe and scratch at his wing.

"Good," Slag uttered, meanwhile, the word a guttural, animal grunt that sent cascades of tingling shivers rippling down Swoop's spine to pool between his legs. "Very good," Slag reiterated even more fiercely as he removed his hand from Swoop's wing and instead yanked roughly at Swoop's body in order to pull a certain part of him within arm's reach.

Swoop yowled more in surprise than protest, and then groaned in delight as Slag reached between their heated bodies and began to prod and claw roughly at the armor panel that protected his interface array. Slag grinned like a lunatic while he was at it, reveling at the cries and impassioned words of encouragement that began to rip themselves out of Swoop's throat in response. His head was thrown back in bliss, his throat entirely exposed. Slag found that he couldn't resist that particular expanse of vulnerable anatomy. He levered himself up so that he was mostly sitting up, and Swoop murmured in arousal drenched alarm as he slid down Slag's now-bent legs and their groins met with a muted clang.

"Mine," Slag growled ferociously.

And without further warning, Slag bit deeply into Swoop's throat, his teeth tearing lines and spilling a small river of commingled fluids. Swoop squawked in pained ecstasy, his fingers gripping and crushing into Slag's shoulder armor. His legs wrapped around Slag in an attempt to press himself harder against Slag's probing hand, and at about the same time, his panel finally slid aside under Slag's assault.

Swoop heaved a sigh almost of relief as the heat and pressure that had been building behind the panel was suddenly released and cooler air, mixed with the heat that Slag's body was radiating in intense waves, caressed him. He growled as Slag's fingers, firmly sandwiched between their heated bodies, probed with incongruous gentleness his most intimate parts. His own fingers were still digging harshly into Slag's shoulders, his back, everywhere that Swoop could reach.

"Yours," he agreed fervently, meanwhile, crying out again as Slag probed him more aggressively with not-entirely-gentle fingers, pushing two of them roughly inside of him. "Always yours, Slag," he added, moaning as he pushed himself down hard against Slag's fingers, internal sensory nodes igniting, the sensations almost burning in their intensity as he moved slowly and deliberately.

"Better believe it," Slag grunted, as he watched Swoop ride his hand. "Not fair," he further grunted after a moment, watching Swoop's face slide farther and faster toward ecstasy. "You're having all the fun."

Swoop stilled then, the effort consuming every last iota of willpower that he possessed, and he gave Slag a wicked grin. He lifted himself off of Slag's fingers then, shifting and lifting himself so that he could claim Slag's mouth in a hot, demanding kiss while at the same time lowering himself onto Slag's waiting spike.

Slag groaned as sensation flooded him, as Swoop's warmth slid down onto him, surrounding him, squeezing him. Swoop's arms wrapped possessively around him, hands stroking and small fingers probing, and he moaned into Swoop's mouth as it devoured his own, lips and teeth colliding and tongues sinuously intertwining. He was acutely aware that he sounded pathetically needy, but he didn't care in the slightest. He dimly heard an answering wanton moan from Swoop, which only encouraged his efforts as he began to move, slowly and carefully at first, within Swoop.

It had been driving Slag crazy, this need for someone…no, this need for Swoop, specifically. He hadn't been offering an excuse before, not entirely: He really had missed the annoying little flyer, even though he'd only been gone for three hours. The swiftly-developing sense of connection that he felt toward Swoop was disturbing for one such as himself, who liked to believe that he didn't like anyone, much less need anyone enough to miss them. Yet it was there, and he couldn't deny it, at least not to himself. It was need. It was overwhelming want, and it was want not just for this sort of deeply intimate encounter but for closeness in general. And for Slag, who otherwise feared nothing, that was a very scary thing. But for the moment, Slag wasn't going to question it, wasn't going to argue and wrestle with it as he'd been doing over the past few weeks. He was just going to enjoy it. Cherish it. Cherish him.

Slag braced both hands against the floor for leverage then, leaning his weight back on them and upthrusting deeply into Swoop, who cried out in bliss as his internal sensors sang with pleasure. He clung to Slag for dear life, arms and legs both wrapped tightly around him, or otherwise risk going flying across the closet from the sheer enthusiastic force of Slag's thrusts. He did his best to meet Slag thrust for thrust, quickly adjusting to the frenetic, demanding pace that Slag soon set, that meant that it didn't take long at all for friction and melting heat to build up deep inside of Swoop. Try as he might to slow them down, to hold them back, to make this last…it just wasn't going to happen. Slag was too far gone, had already been holding himself back for too long now, and he had no incentive at all to rein himself in. Neither, really, did Swoop. Little jolts of energy were already loosing themselves from Slag's spike, tickling and pricking Swoop deep inside, and he knew that it wouldn't be long now at all, for either of them. They slammed relentlessly into each other like opposing and powerful forces of nature, completely lost in each other and completely heedless of the noise that they were making. They didn't care who might hear them, who might barge in on them.

Slag bellowed as climax finally, blissfully crashed over him, his cry loud enough that Swoop grinned with satisfaction, loud enough that it practically shook the walls. The charge that his spike released scorched Swoop and the mingled pain/pleasure along with the energy input easily pushed him over the edge as well, keening and wailing as we went. The waves of energy from Slag's release coursed along his neural pathways, leaving him breathless and weak and shuddering in their wake. He collapsed limply against Slag, who in turn sagged back down onto the floor, spent. He pulled Swoop down with him, breaking the connection between them. Both of them lay panting for long moments as overworked systems attempted to recover from and compensate for their exertions.

Swoop roused himself first, his smaller, lither body dissipating heat more efficiently than Slag's bulkier one could. He slid off of Slag to settle himself alongside of him instead, propped up on one hand, weight resting on the side of his hip, one leg thrown carelessly over Slag's body. Leaning down, he nuzzled his face affectionately into Slag's neck.

"That was nice," he complimented just before trailing his tongue lightly up the side of Slag's neck and then nibbling gently at his jaw.

"I aim to please," Slag murmured, content.

Swoop snorted a wash of warm air against him before lifting his head to look Slag in the eye, amusement dancing over his expression.

"You _so_ do not," Swoop answered teasingly, then smothered the protest that Slag attempted to offer with a kiss that went on longer than he'd intended when he'd started it.

Had Slag not been running low on energy, having fought a battle earlier, there might have been a Round Two. As it was, Slag needed energon and Swoop needed to finish his duty shift, two facts which Swoop gently pointed out to Slag once the kiss ended. Slag heaved a resigned but agreeing sigh before pushing himself with great effort up off of the floor and onto his feet. Swoop scrambled much more easily to his feet at the same time.

Slag turned to leave then, without further ado, but then another thought seized him, prompted by he knew not what, nor did he think much about it. Instead, turning swiftly back to Swoop, he just gathered him against himself with one arm, used his free hand to cup Swoop's surprised face, and then bent down to kiss him more gently, more affectionately, than he'd ever kissed him.

Swoop was surprised, gentleness not something that he'd ever thought to associate with much less expect from Slag, but then he melted against him, wrapping his arms around his waist as the kiss went on. He was reeling, amazed that, although the kiss lacked Slag's usual passionate lust, it was otherwise brimming with something that was much closer to softer, mushier emotions. It was this, more than anything, that was melting Swoop. Passion and lust were all well and good – really good – but he found that he craved the softness, too, and he had firmly believed that he would never find such a thing in Slag or at the very least that it would take a lot of work on his part to pry it out of him, if indeed he was capable of it at all. Swoop had thought that this need of his for affection, for closeness would become a large and looming problem, somewhere down the road, and yet…And yet, there it was, all of a sudden all freely offered. And it had been Slag who had initiated it. It was nothing less than shocking. Welcome, but shocking.

Slag eventually, reluctantly, broke the kiss, knowing that Swoop needed to get back to work, and as he pulled back he saw that Swoop's eyes were wide and practically glowing. He was smiling at Slag beatifically, the teasing smirk that usually tinged the smiles that he gave Slag nowhere to be seen for now. Slag filed the reaction away for future reference.

"So _do_ aim to please," he quietly but intensely informed Swoop.

Swoop just stared up at him, still reeling from the kiss, from the affection that had driven it, from the gentleness that was sending waves through him, waves not of lust or of arousal but of something mellower. Something rarer. Something to be cherished for now and then sought again, later, when the timing was better.

Their gazes still locked, Slag stepped back from Swoop then, reluctantly releasing him from his embrace. Impulsively, he reached out to him and ran the back of one hand down Swoop's cheek, smiling softly as Swoop murmured something unintelligible but happy as he leaned into the gesture.

"See you later," Slag said, tearing himself away and turning with reluctant determination toward the door.

Swoop just nodded, words refusing to come to him, as he watched Slag leave, fighting back a surprisingly strong urge to follow him. He continued to stand there, motionless, for long moments after Slag had left, simply staring contemplatively at the door. He replayed in his mind a few time the last few minutes before Slag's departure, warmth and wonder still flowing through his, and it was quite a while before he found that he could focus and return to his task.


	7. Unworthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Swoop.
> 
> And boy was I in a bad place when I wrote this! Both depressed and very, _very_ angry, but all bottled up so that it was only hurting me. It hurts to reread this one, seriously, knowing as I do the "source" of it. I'm so glad I'm not there anymore. But when I was...Well, I let it bleed all over Swoop, poor thing. :(

"You don't understand," Swoop insisted to Ratchet. "You and Wheeljack try, more than anyone else, but even you don't understand. You don't see it. But we see it. We know. We are aware of it every second of every day. We know that if we are weak, then we are worthless. And if we ever become worthless, then...Then you know what will happen to us."

Ratchet gaped at Swoop, speechless for long, long moments.

"You really believe that?" he eventually asked with quiet bewilderment. "After all this time, you _still_ believe that? All of you?"

Swoop snorted, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall of Ratchet's small, cluttered office.

"All of us. Because after all this time," he answered, "the only real change is that things aren't said directly to our faces anymore. That's about as much credit as we get from most of you, but for a select few. And thank Primus that one of that select few is _Prowl_ or else who knows what Optimus Prime would have done with us by now."

"That's...that's not true," Ratchet sputtered. " _You_ are widely respected, at the very least."

Swoop gave him a tolerant but sad smile.

"You like to think that, I know," he said quietly. "But, really, if someone needs help and has a choice in the matter, they'll go to you. Or First Aid. Or Hoist. Or Wheeljack. Or Perceptor. Or even _Sparkplug_. They'll go to me if they're dying and the rest of you are busy and so they have no other choice." He tried, but largely failed, to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"You're exaggerating," Ratchet insisted again. "Tracks—"

Swoop smirked tiredly.

"Yes, Tracks," he said. "One of the Autobots who feels like he owes me something and who, along with Mirage, is _almost_ as much of an outsider as we are. I don't think he trusts the rest of you, so he seeks out others who aren't trusted. Birds of a feather, as they say. Mirage would probably join our happy little flock, too, if we weren't several miles beneath his contempt."

Ratchet stared at Swoop; he was probably right about Mirage, but everything else…? Ratchet tried hard to think of something meaningful to say, racking his processors to think of an answer, to say something good, something to help heal what was obviously a long-simmering hurt, but nothing was coming to him. He was quick when wit and sarcasm were required, but when comfort and encouragement were needed? Not so much. That was Wheeljack's department, at least when it came to the Dinobots. But then Swoop was talking again, anyway, saving the floundering Ratchet.

"I'm in a bad place, Ratchet," Swoop was suddenly confessing. "Always have been. I'm a Dinobot, but I'm the weak link, the weakest of them. I'm the one with the least value, the most unworthy of the unworthy."

Ratchet opened his mouth to protest, but Swoop spoke over him.

"No, don't say it," he said, shaking his head at the medic. "It's true, and you know it. Slag may be a giant pain in the aft, but at least he can inflict serious damage on the enemy. You just have to make sure he's pointed at the Decepticons before you wind him up and let him loose. Same with Grimlock. Same with Snarl and even Sludge. But me? I've always been aware of my place and of how vulnerable it is. I've always known that I have to prove myself worthy of existence every single day, or...or else."

"You have _nothing_ to prove, Swoop," Ratchet said quietly but meaningfully, frowning and leaning toward Swoop, as if doing so would somehow make his words more true, as if it would force his words through the wall of Swoop's protesting denial. " _Nothing_ ," he reiterated urgently.

Swoop smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes and the gratitude in his expression was overwhelmed by the weariness.

"Not to you, maybe," he acknowledged softly. "Not to Wheeljack. But to everyone else...? Yes. Yes, I do. So I can't tell you how many hours I've spent studying the Seekers, watching vids of them, learning how they fly and fight, trying to figure out their strategies. I pored over their records and profiles, too, trying to find weaknesses in them of any kind. Physical, psychological, tactical, _something_. I tried – I _still_ try – to be better at fighting them. But they are by nature better than me at that. And they always will be because they live for battle and I...I don't. I do it because that's what I'm supposed to do, not because I'm particularly good at it and certainly not because I want to."

Ratchet frowned again, never suspecting that Swoop, who had always seemed to him capable and quietly self-confident – as opposed to Grimlock's loud self-confidence – thought himself useless, that he thought his value wholly based upon what he could do and not simply upon who he was. But Ratchet wasn't sure that he could convince Swoop otherwise. He was far out of his depth. Wheeljack would be far better at this discussion that he'd found himself engaged in, but Wheeljack wasn't there. Ratchet sighed resignedly, hoping that he at least wouldn't completely screw this up, that he wouldn't say something utterly stupid and end up making Swoop feel even worse. He had a talent for doing that sort of thing.

"No one has ever expected you to be able to take the Seekers on by yourself, Swoop," he quietly pointed out.

"Then why is there only _one_ of me up there?" Swoop plaintively asked, reflexively voicing a question that had long plagued his mind but that he'd never actually worked up the nerve to ask…until now. "I was _it_ in the air, Ratchet, until Skyfire came along. _By accident_. It was just me up there until Skyfire and then finally Powerglide and then the Aerialbots and Blades came along. What was I _supposed_ to think?"

Ratchet blinked; he'd never actually thought about it…but Swoop had a point.

"The others are supposed to back you up," Ratchet answered, lamely. Weak as it was, it was the only answer that occurred to him, and he felt vaguely shamed by that. There were so many ways that he and Wheeljack could have done better by the Dinobots, and he was only just now realizing some of them, fifteen years later. A human saying about hindsight came vaguely to him, of a sudden.

"And they try their best," Swoop was agreeing, nodding sadly. "But we up in the air move a lot faster than they do on the ground. I'm easy to isolate up there." He sighed and added, "Sometimes, I think the Seekers don't destroy me only because it's so much more fun to be able to toy with me on a regular basis. It's…humiliating."

Ratchet sighed again, helplessly this time.

"Why haven't you said anything about this before?" he asked.

Swoop gave him an indecipherable look, eyes shadowed with something that might have been fear.

"Couldn't," he said, his voice flat, an obvious bandage over a deep, gaping wound. "Can't be weak."

"We're all weak sometimes, Swoop," Ratchet countered.

" _You_ can be," Swoop countered right back. " _We_ can't be. _I_ , especially, can't be. Like I said."

Ratchet closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of anger. Not at Swoop, certainly, but at his comrades. His friends. Optimus Prime, especially. They had forced the Dinobots – his own creations, young and innocent in a strange way for individuals born to inflict massive bodily damage – into this sort of mindset. Into thinking that they existed on sufferance. Into thinking that they were unworthy unless they performed like trained animals or, worse, mindless, non-sentient drones on the battlefield. It was…infuriating. But Swoop didn't need to see that. That was a discussion to be had somewhere else. With some _one_ else. Clenching his fists under his desk, Ratchet forced the fury aside, settled his gaze back on Swoop, who was watching him with cautious curiosity.

"Swoop," he said quietly, "I honestly don't know what to say to convince you of this, but…that isn't true. You are no different than any of us and, really, we all know that. You can't be strong all the time."

"Maybe not," Swoop conceded. "But I have to try. But…it's hard. Because even doing what I was designed to do, even when I sometimes manage, somehow, to do it well…It wasn't enough. So when I heard you complaining one day, all those years ago, that the medbay was understaffed, I thought that maybe...Maybe I could be useful here, even if I ended up spending my days scrubbing floors with a toothbrush. Because I need to be more. I need to make up for what I lack. Have to do that. "

"No, you _don't_!" Ratchet insisted, suddenly rapping a fist on his desk, making Swoop jump. "If you _want_ to be more, that's wonderful. But _have_ to be? Swoop, why are you putting this on yourself? You…are valuable simply because you exist, because you are a precious life, a sentient individual just like any of us, even the humans. You're not valued because you can shoot down Seekers or even because you can save someone else's life. If you couldn't do that anymore for whatever reason, no one would think less of you, much less _harm_ you."

"I wish," Swoop answered in a small voice, pushing away from the wall and beginning to pace as he talked. It was, Ratchet fleetingly reflected, a habit that he shared with Wheeljack, a convenient excuse not to look someone in the face. "I wish that was true. But it isn't. Not for me. Not for _us_." Bitterly, he added, "Good old Dinobots, there to save our sorry afts. And Primus help them if they aren't."

Ratchet sighed, rubbing wearily at his forehead.

"I thought we'd gotten past this," he said, "a long time ago."

"I wish," Swoop replied quietly, "that we had."


	8. Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was Swoop. The idea of this one is one that I had, at the time, thoughts of expanding/continuing in some way because the concept was interesting to me. So maybe I will do that now. Who knows? :)

Swoop found Optimus Prime in the Control Room. He was speaking with Ironhide about something, so Swoop waited, nervously, until they had finished. And then, even more nervously, he approached the Autobot leader and made a small, hesitant noise to announce his presence. Optimus looked down at him, his limited expression managing to register surprise; it wasn't often, after all, that any of the Dinobots sought him out for any reason. But then he realized what Swoop might be after.

"If this is about that physical Ratchet's been nagging me about—" he began to say, annoyed, but Swoop shook his head vehemently, his eyes wide.

"No," he assured Prime quietly. "No, nothing like that. I just have a…a hypothetical question. Do you have a minute?"

Optimus blinked, utterly surprised at what Swoop had said, but he recovered quickly. He nodded and silently gestured toward the door of his private office, which adjoined the Control Room. Swoop nodded and then headed toward the indicated door. Optimus followed him and, once inside, he settled himself behind his desk. He gestured at one of the chairs in front of it, and Swoop settled uneasily into it.

Once he'd settled himself, Swoop found himself suddenly reluctant, suddenly certain that this was a very bad idea. But then he decided that it was too late to back out of his planned course of action and so he forged determinedly ahead.

He asked quietly, without preamble, "What would happen if one of the Decepticons wanted to defect? I mean, what would happen to him here, if he were to take refuge here? Completely hypothetically, I mean."

Optimus Prime blinked, surprised at the question. He'd had no idea what Swoop could possibly want to speak with him about…but the subject suddenly at hand was at the bottom of the list, if it had been on the list at all.

"Well…" he said uncertainly after a moment. "We've… Well, we've never faced that situation before, actually, so it's not as if we have a standard procedure in place."

"Still," Swoop persistently pointed out, "you're the leader. What would you do? Hypothetically. I mean, would you put him in the brig?"

"Hypothetically…Possibly," Optimus said with a thoughtful nod. "Until we could be sure that he was being sincere and could be trusted, at least. In some ways, it would be for his own protection as well. Some of the Autobots can be a little…zealous."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Swoop answered sarcastically, and Optimus Prime had to suppress a chuckle. Ratchet's sense of "humor" had quite obviously rubbed off on his star protégé.

"Really," he answered. "So…I'd have to say that, yes, your hypothetical defector would likely spend some time in the brig, if only for his own protection."

"But not forever," Swoop clarified.

"Well, no, of course not. Not unless he ultimately proved himself insincere and untrustworthy, that is," Optimus answered with a shrug. "But a _sincere_ defector would likely do whatever he had to do to prove himself trustworthy, so…"

Swoop nodded thoughtfully.

"True," he said, and then moved on to his next question. "Would he be interrogated?"

Optimus flinched.

"Oh, 'interrogated' has such nasty connotations," he said. "I'd call it…debriefed."

"What if he didn't want to give any information?" Swoop asked.

"As I said, a _sincere_ defector would be willing to do whatever he had to do prove himself trustworthy. Divulging some information would go a long way toward that."

"But what if he didn't want to divulge any?" Swoop persisted. "Hypothetically, of course."

Optimus sighed.

"I would say," he said, "that it would be _reasonable_ to expect some information in return for granting someone asylum and protection. And if our hypothetical defector didn't want to be _reasonable_ , then…" He shrugged, and it was obvious what he meant.

Swoop frowned, troubled.

"I see," he said, more to himself than to Prime.

For a long moment, Optimus Prime stared at Swoop, really seeing him all of a sudden, as he'd never seen him before. He studied the Dinobot intently, and he noticed the tension in his body, the way that he wouldn't meet his gaze, the way that he was fidgeting in his chair every now and then. Admittedly, Optimus didn't know any of the Dinobots well, mostly because they didn't allow him to know them well, and he supposed that he could understand that, given the history between them. But some kinds of body language were simply universal, so much so that they even crossed species. And Swoop's was saying…

"Why do I get the sense," Optimus Prime asked quietly then, "that these haven't been hypothetical questions at all?"

And Swoop did meet his gaze then, jerking his head up and breaking his fascinated study of the floor. The look that he gave Prime when their gazes met was intensely guilty…

…And then that old familiar sinking feeling was upon Optimus Prime once again.

"Because you're smart?" Swoop was saying in a tiny voice, with a wan half-smile. And then he collected himself, gathered his courage, and sat straighter in his chair. "I've been…talking to…to one of them, yes," he admitted.

Optimus Prime blinked and then shook his head to clear it out.

"I…repaired him once," Swoop was explaining. "After a battle. He'd been left behind, and he was too damaged to fly and…and I couldn't just leave him there for the humans to find. No one should be…locked up and treated like an animal, like they would have done to him. I…know what that's like," he said, nailing Prime with a reproachful look, but Prime let it pass for the moment. And Swoop continued with a defiant glare, "And I'm sorry, but I knew that he wouldn't be treated much better if he was brought here, either." And again Optimus chose to let it go…for now. "So," Swoop concluded, "I…repaired him enough so that he could get himself home. And I really thought that would be the end of it."

"But it wasn't," Optimus prompted, when Swoop fell into a silence and went back to staring at the floor.

"No," he said quietly. "No, it wasn't." He raised his head to look at Prime again as he said, "When I was…out once, he found me. He said that he just wanted to thank me for what I'd done for him. So he did and, again, I thought that would be the end of it, that he'd take off and that would be that. But instead…we ended up just sitting and talking. For hours."

"About what?" Optimus asked tersely, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Nothing important," Swoop said, suddenly wide-eyed. "I mean, we talked about the weather. The sunset. The moon. We were in Africa at the time. I'd gone there to check in on this herd of elephants that I like to observe. So we talked about elephants and why humans kill them. And then that led to talking about humans in general, and…and other things. Like, he told me some stories about Cybertron's glory days, since I never got to see that, and…"

Swoop noticed the look on Prime's face as his voice trailed off.

"I didn't talk about the Autobots," he said, "and he didn't talk about the Decepticons, if that's what you're thinking. I would never do that…and I honestly don't think that he would, either."

"I suppose not," Optimus said…although he didn't sound at all convinced.

"And then…he left," Swoop said. "And, again, I thought that that would be that."

"But it wasn't," Optimus repeated.

"No," Swoop answered quietly. "No, we've been…meeting each other, off and on, for about six months now. Sometimes he finds me, sometimes I find him. And we talk." At the suspiciously questioning look that Optimus leveled at him, Swoop added with something of an indignant glare, "And no, that's not a euphemism for…doing something else."

Optimus sighed.

"And now he's telling you that he wants to defect," he said.

"No," Swoop answered. "I mean, I don't know. I mean, the subject hasn't come up at all. I just… In case it /i>does come up at some point, I wanted to be able to tell him the truth, to let him know what to expect. That's all."

"At some point?" Optimus Prime echoed, the tone of his voice almost amused, in a strange way. "So you think I'm just going to let you keep meeting with a Decepticon, then?"

Swoop raised his chin at Prime defiantly.

"Unless you lock me up in the brig as a traitor for the rest of my life," he said, "it's not as if you can really stop me, is it?" And then he softened and added, "I promise you that I would never say anything to him that would put any Autobot in danger. And honestly, I think the same is true for him, for his side. That kind of subject…Well, it just doesn't even come up, actually. Or at least it hasn't yet."

Optimus Prime was quiet for a long time, staring at Swoop intently. And then he asked quietly, curiously, "Why are you doing this?"

Swoop shrugged and answered, honestly, "I really don't know. Maybe I think that there will be a pay-off, in the end."

"That he'll defect?"

"Maybe," Swoop answered, shrugging again. "I don't know. Really… I think that he likes having someone to talk to. Someone…outside of his normal life, I mean. And I've found that I like that, too. I appreciate the…different perspective."

Optimus sighed resignedly and leaned back in his chair.

"This is dangerous," he said, and when Swoop opened his mouth to protest, he held up a hand to forestall him. "I believe you," he said, "when you say that you won't tell him anything that he shouldn't know. I do. But he's a Decepticon and…"

"If he wanted to harm me," Swoop said quietly, "or capture me or beat information out of me or whatever, he's had plenty of chances to do so over the past six months, and yet I'm still here. And besides…I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," Optimus replied quietly. Of course he could; he was a Dinobot. And Prime remained quiet for a long while after that, trying to decide what to make of the situation.

It was difficult for Optimus Prime to trust any of the Dinobots, and he liked to believe that he had justification for his caution in that regard. Even with earlier…misunderstandings…having been resolved and put behind them, the truth was that the Dinobots were still a largely unknown quantity, at least to Optimus Prime himself. Grimlock was extremely stubborn and even more argumentative, and he still had a power-hungry streak a mile wide that could sometimes put the Decepticons to shame. Slag was openly hostile toward everyone and everything…except Swoop, but that was something that Prime couldn't really process yet. Sludge was mostly harmless, true, but he was also very easily led around by the nose, and Grimlock and Slag, in particular, were all too happy to lead him. And Snarl…Well, who knew what went on behind Snarl's coolly indifferent stone-face?

But this was Swoop that he was dealing with now. Swoop had managed not only to make himself very useful – several Autobots owed him their lives now – but he'd also proven himself to be level-headed, intelligent, and keenly, not to mention surprisingly, insightful. Ratchet had told Prime that he had something of an innate gift for counseling, for talking to people and, perhaps more importantly, for patiently listening to them and addressing their fears and concerns.

And perhaps that was exactly the heart of the matter at hand. Swoop had simply found himself someone to counsel. Optimus might wish that it hadn't been a Decepticon, but in some ways it made a strange sort of sense. For all that Swoop was the Dinobot who had made the most effort to integrate himself with the Autobots as a whole, and for all that he'd had far more success at that than any of his brethren, he was still largely seen as an outsider, not as someone to whom to spill one's guts, as the saying went. A Decepticon, however, might have far fewer compunctions in that regard, if he could bring himself to talk to an Autobot at all. And obviously this one, whoever he was, had done so. And maybe Swoop was right and there would be some kind of pay-off in the end. So…

"Just…be careful," Optimus advised with a long, drawn-out sigh. Half of him was screaming in horror at the decision he'd just made, but the other half acknowledged that trusting Swoop's judgment in this and allowing him some latitude might, if nothing else, communicate to the other Dinobots that he was willing to give them some latitude, too. 

Within reason, of course.

Meanwhile, Swoop gave Prime a wry half-smile and said, "Well, that goes without saying, I think." And then, sensing that the conversation was finished, he got up out of his chair. He stood there for a moment, regarding Optimus Prime uncertainly, and then he said, "Thank you." When Prime only looked at him questioningly in return, he added, "Thank you for telling me the truth…and thank you for not throwing me in the brig."

Optimus Prime made a resigned noise.

"Yes, well," he said grumpily, "that could change at any time if I think there's a reason to do so, so…enjoy your 'friend' while you can."

Swoop smiled uncertainly, and then turned to leave.

"You do realize," Optimus Prime said just before Swoop passed through the door, "that once he's lulled you into a false sense of security, he will use you to acquire information. Don't be fooled. And then he'll use whatever he learns from you to curry favor with his superior, and then—"

Swoop halted abruptly and spun away from the door.

"No," he insistently interrupted, shaking his head vehemently.

"Of course he will!" Optimus countered. "That's how one rises through the ranks in the Decepticons, by currying favor or…or assassination."

"But he doesn't need to rise through the ranks!" Swoop blurted, and then instantly regretted that he'd said it. He resisted the urge to look alarmed or to slap his hand over his mouth, just in case Optimus wouldn't see the implication of what he'd said.

But of course he did.

"Of course he needs to rise through the ranks! They all do. Unless—" Optimus began to say. And then he gave Swoop a hard look. He'd assumed that Swoop had managed to create a connection with some low-level grunt, but now…

Optimus Prime stood and approached the suddenly frozen Dinobot then, stepping out from behind his desk and advancing slowly toward him, not stopping until he was only a pace away from Swoop. He leaned down so that his glaring gaze could bore more deeply into the Dinobot's.

"Just who is it that we've been talking about here, Swoop?" he demanded to know, his voice almost dangerously quiet.

Swoop thought frantically, trying to decide whether it would be wiser to tell the truth or to try to invent some outrageous and far-fetched lie on the fly. But he wasn't very good at the latter, and he'd always been taught that telling the truth was always the preferable option. So…

"It's Thundercracker," he whispered.


	9. Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "required Dinobot" for this one was all of them.

Prowl had become, over the years, an early riser. Mostly, this was because Autobot Headquarters seemed to be at its most serene early – very early – in the morning. Given that it was otherwise often a place of barely-controlled chaos in many different ways, Prowl had come to greatly appreciate the serenity that the wee-er hours of the morning afforded. He had subsequently arranged his personal schedule in order to take the best advantage of it.

So, as was his wont, Prowl strolled into the Control Room at a few minutes before 4AM…and then he stopped dead in his tracks.

Ironhide was there. That was entirely to be expected since he currently had command of the night watch. What wasn't at all expected, however, was that there was also a Dinobot there. He was, as far as Prowl could tell, asleep, curled up on the floor in the middle of the Control Room. He was in his dinosaur mode, and he had managed to arrange himself in a position that was vaguely cat-like, even down to the fact that the tip of his tail was laid almost delicately over his snout. And he was snoring softly.

Ironhide, for his part, didn't seem to notice the Dinobot's snoozing presence, or perhaps he just didn't really care about it. Prowl strongly suspected the latter, given Ironhide's general tendency to take even the strangest of things in stride. Nothing seemed to surprise Ironhide, and even when something did manage to do so, he generally tended to regard whatever it was with a good deal of quiet amusement. Age had its advantages that way. Prowl, on the other hand…

Prowl blinked rapidly a few times, just in case his optical sensors were deceiving him, but when he finished blinking the Dinobot was still there. Still curled up like a cat. Still asleep. Still snoring. In response, Prowl did the only thing that he could think of to do, under the circumstances.

He called Ratchet. At four in the morning. It took several attempts on Prowl's part before Ratchet finally answered the call.

" _What_ , dammit?" the medic growled over the comm, all aggressively groggy.

"This is Prowl," Prowl announced calmly.

"Well, _of course it is!_ " Ratchet responded. "Who the hell _else_ would be calling me at this hour?"

Completely unruffled, Prowl continued, "I need you in the Control Room."

Ratchet harrumphed at that and declared, "Someone had better be dying."

Ironhide snorted, then coughed to cover up a laugh, all of which Prowl tried to ignore as he answered, "No, not…dying."

Ratchet sighed.

"Prowl," he said with impressive calm. "Do you have _any_ idea what time it is? And be very careful how you answer because your life depends on it."

Prowl blinked and answered quite calmly and accurately, "It's 3:59AM."

Ratchet grunted and said, "Yep, that's what I thought. I'll be there in a minute, Prowl. And then I'm going to kill you," he promised.

Ironhide started laughing even before Ratchet abruptly cut the connection.

******

Ratchet stormed into the Control Room like a thundercloud, all tall, dark, and rumbling threateningly. This, however, did not faze Prowl in the slightest.

"Ratchet," he said in his most displeased voice, the one that was guaranteed to make even a Dinobot take a step backward in consternation…but a Dinobot had nothing in terms of general crankiness on a sleep-deprived Ratchet. "Would you mind telling me why Snarl is sleeping in the middle of the Control Room?" Prowl asked.

Ratchet blinked blankly at Prowl, and then he blinked at Snarl, and then he blinked at Prowl again. And then he growled, "You summoned me here at four in the damned morning to ask me this?"

"Yes, I did," Prowl answered neutrally, thoroughly unimpressed with the greatly irritated tone of Ratchet's voice. "I thought that there might be something wrong with him," he explained. In his own estimation, that was a perfectly good reason to call a medic, particularly the medic who had created the Dinobot in question in the first place.

Ratchet snorted at Prowl, muttered something under his breath about something definitely being wrong with Prowl, and then he regarded Snarl speculatively for a moment, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side. He paced once around the Dinobot's big, curled-up form, pausing occasionally to peer at various parts of him more closely, occasionally going so far as to poke and prod at him. This made Snarl twitch a little in response, once even to grumble and shift his position slightly, but it didn't come close to waking him. When he'd finished his circuit, Ratchet regarded Prowl very gravely.

"In my professional opinion," Ratchet solemnly, too solemnly, intoned, "he was most likely tired."

Ironhide burst out laughing again. Prowl half turned toward him to give him a look, a very severe look…which Ironhide almost completely ignored. His only response to it was to modulate his outright laughter to a slightly quieter snicker.

"He does have quarters, you know," Prowl irritatedly pointed out to Ratchet as he turned back to him, doing his best to ignore the guffawing Ironhide.

"He does, yes," Ratchet agreed thoughtfully. After a few moments' thought he added, "Well then, apparently he was _really_ tired."

Prowl could only gape at the medic. And then he gaped, too, at Swoop, who just at that moment stepped into the Control Room.

"Hi!" Swoop said cheerfully to the gathered Autobots. Too cheerfully, in Ratchet's opinion. He made a mental note to have a long discussion with the lad about the level of cheer that he customarily displayed at god-awful hours of the morning because he was far too much like Wheeljack in that regard.

Swoop, meanwhile, marched up to Ratchet and reported, "Hound and Trailbreaker were out in that gorge overnight again." Ratchet groaned as Swoop continued, "Trailbreaker had to tow Hound in this time. Nothing serious. I did what I could in the half-hour I had left, but… Well, have fun," he said with an impudent grin.

Ratchet suppressed the urge to launch into a stream of very vile curses. It was an effort to do so, and the effort clearly showed on his face. Swoop smirked at him, knowing that particular expression of Ratchet's all too well, and then he turned toward Snarl.

Completely unfazed by Snarl's very odd choice of sleeping locale, Swoop unceremoniously grabbed one of Snarl's tail spikes and yanked on it in order to move a length of Snarl's tail out of the way. Snarl mumbled and grumbled a bit, but seemed otherwise oblivious. Swoop stepped into the little space that he'd created between Snarl's tail and the rest of his body, lay down in the space, wiggled around a bit in an attempt to make himself comfortable, and then yanked Snarl's tail closer again, creating a nest of sorts around himself. Seconds later, he was out like a light.

Ironhide started snickering again as Ratchet and Prowl exchanged a look. Prowl's expression clearly demanded an answer from the medic, but Ratchet only shrugged and made a faint, ambiguous gesture at the two Dinobots in response, as if to say, "What can you do?"

Moments later, a prodigiously yawning Sludge practically staggered into the Control Room. He didn't seem to notice the non-Dinobot occupants of the room; his attention immediately latched onto the comfortably-snuggled Snarl and Swoop, and he made his way unsteadily toward them. He flopped down behind Snarl, curling around him, and he was dead to the world almost before he finished the curling part.

"I'm…sensing a very disturbing pattern here," Prowl murmured weakly as the biggest of the Dinobots powered down.

And, sure enough, a few minutes later, Grimlock and Slag arrived in the Control Room, having just come in from patrol. Grimlock didn't so much as acknowledge anyone in the room before he joined the pile of slumbering Dinobots. This left Slag the job of giving Ratchet, Prowl, and Ironhide a steely, displeased, and very defiant glare as he found himself a spot, ending up leaning half-upright against Snarl's withers. He sighed almost contentedly as he, too, powered down.

Once the final two Dinobots had settled, and once a long and somewhat stunned silence had passed, Ironhide lazily drawled, "Well. Just when I think I've finally seen everything…"

"Ratchet?" Prowl managed to utter a few moments later, his tone of voice now completely dazed.

"Yes, Prowl?" Ratchet answered calmly.

"Would you mind telling me why there are now _five_ Dinobots sleeping in the middle of the Control Room?"

Ratchet gave the issue at hand a bit of thought. A bit was all that he needed, though, for the answer to Prowl's question was quite clear, at least to him.

"Well, now that's a much easier question to answer," Ratchet declared with a nod at no one in particular.

"It is?" Prowl responded, surprised.

"It is," Ratchet confirmed, nodding again, but he didn't seem at all inclined to say anything further on the subject.

"And…" Prowl eventually, slowly prompted, "would you perhaps care to enlighten me?"

Ratchet shrugged and answered mildly, "Solidarity." After a pause, during which Prowl blinked in confusion at him, he added, "Now, if you're done asking me very stupid questions, I apparently have a complete idiot to repair."

And then Ratchet stalked out of the Control Room, growling under his breath about ungodly hours of the morning, crazy scouts, and annoying morning people. Prowl watched him leave, still blinking in confusion, and then he dazedly regarded the pile of sleeping Dinobots that, now, was taking up half the Control Room…and then he sighed.

It was very clear to him now that it was going to be one of _those_ days.


End file.
